Lee Jaszlics is a technical writer and photographer living in Portland, Oregon. They share their life with a cat, two pet spiders and a dissecting microscope. Their work has never before been published. Out For the Season Winter left you breathless; fine frozen talc wrote a foreign alphabet across organs with classical names, and branching […]Read more "Out For the Season"
A spring morning much like others, some daffodils rain-beaten, some perked. Daphne’s lemony fragrance when near enough. The outdoor little library bookcase at the neighbor’s frames the same mythologies, travel guides, and who-dun-its that got us through winter’s downpours. At the abandoned school, morning changes. A man rakes the baseball diamond, listening on earphones that […]Read more "Kindling"
Franziska Hofhansel is an aspiring screenplay and fiction writer from Providence, Rhode Island. Still Here She wore a tattered blue dress displaying what was left of her curves and he, a faded flannel, unfashionably ripped jeans and a hazy smile. She held him a second too long and asked him where he’d gotten his cologne. […]Read more "Still Here"
Reckoning Men finger pockets, lick lips, squint into the bright light of too much possibility. Women narrow eyes like foxes guarding layers. The world has become Winter. They read about growing tomatoes, generators; watching the headlines and the skylines, skittish, waiting. Storms in the sun, holes in the sky. Your father holds his bible, looking […]Read more "Reckoning"
Frost pastes a mosaic of downed old leaves rimmed in rime. Like teacup dregs and tarot cards splayed on sugared tables, readings of left behinds, these patchworks pinch in icy grout. Leafy feathers fly, wings wish, ash fires and golden glooms to muted stars and folded moons, fans of ginko grace, sweet-gummed prickles, silver bristles […]Read more "Winter Mosaic"
By mid-February we have forgotten the taste of strawberries. We make love with bombs falling in deserts we’ll never see. This room is silent, save for the sound of our own breath. Perhaps we feel as though twilight is falling too quickly. We close our eyes and breathe into each others mouths.Read more "Winter Fruit"
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). It’s a short step from winter and the bed yet you can’t hear its sheet narrow, become the stream pouring from […]Read more "Untitled #4"
Day 88. Almost like spring. #100daysofdepression A post shared by Lauren Hudgins (@laurenhudgins) on Feb 13, 2015 at 2:22pm PST Spring has come early to Portland. My garden is full of daffodils and crocuses. The magenta magnolia in front of the house is blooming its deep purple cup flowers. I have planted snap peas outside […]Read more "#100DaysofDepression Are Over"
You Don’t Have to Explain A poem is your mother’s shadow moving through winter, ethereal and familiar.Read more "Everything I Have to Say About Poetry"
So, today—well, it’s like everyday, but sometimes more connective than others. A small sea of tables wait quietly and orderly in the dining room. Glinting glassware waiting to be filled. Empty tables waiting for me to wait. Every newly seated table is a microcosm, a little world unto itself. Walking up is a quick study’s […]Read more "Order Up: Memoirs of a Waitress"